


Archenemies

by Vash137



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gen-fic, Kid Fic, kid!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vash137/pseuds/Vash137
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sherlock and Mycroft aren't brothers by blood but instead chose their relationship through childhood?</p><p>"As a rule, Sherlock didn’t have much use for children his own age. Most couldn’t read, and the ones who did wouldn’t talk about anything interesting. Other children were loud. They grabbed at you, hands covered in drool or dirt, and sometimes they bit."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crumbs on the Fingers

When Sherlock was five years old, Mummy arranged for him to join a twice weekly playgroup at the Rathbridge estate so she could take private lessons in French Pastry with an Italian named Armand. The Holmes's were between nannies. Mummy had sacked the last one when she caught Mrs. Hawthorne giving Sherlock what his mother had ruled 'too intimate an embrace,' which was to say her son appeared fonder of the Mrs. Hawthorne than his mother, the usual reason nannies disappeared. Sherlock would have preferred to spend the afternoon with the horses (which he could hug without losing them because Mummy thought it was cute) or studying the remains of lunch under the magnifying glass while Miss Amelia-a thin woman of twenty-nine with long blond hair, light brown eyes and a wicked smirk-polished the silver. But Mummy had deemed horses unfit for child rearing, and Sherlock really liked Miss Amelia so he was careful only to talk to her when Mummy was out of the house, and even then, to look at her only from the corner of his gaze, and to never, ever touch her.

So Sherlock resigned himself to a miserable afternoon.

Mummy accompanied Sherlock in the car to the Rathbridge estate. She had dressed well for the occasion in a light blue dress with a bright yellow sash, her long black waves up-swept in a glittering butterfly clip, her thin lips brushed in light red, smokey eyeshadow bringing out the blue of her irises. The prospect of two to three hours of boredom had Sherlock skittish. He played with the buttons of the sailor suit Mummy had dressed him in (Mummy didn't believe in children beginning the day untidy) and fiddled with a hanging thread from the seat in front of him, humming themes from Miss Amelia's soap operas under his breath.

"Sherlock, do lay off that noise," Mummy said when he got particularly loud.

"May I come with you and make croissants?" Sherlock asked with his best politeness. "I will be very quiet and not touch the fire."

"No," Mummy said with a laugh. "Mummy needs to do some things on her own. The Rathbridges are of a good family and their children are well brought up. There's no reason for you to be scared," she said and ruffled his hair.

"I'm not scared," he said.

"It's for your own good, honey. You must learn age appropriate social skills."

"Age approp-appro" he stumbled over the word, and his face tightened with frustration, "social skills are boring."

Mummy just smiled and Sherlock knew there was no use in arguing it further, so he went back to fiddling with the buttons on his jacket. As a rule, Sherlock didn't have much use for children his own age. Most couldn't read, and the ones who did wouldn't talk about anything interesting. They threw toy cars off of the dresser, played games dictated by rules that were improperly imagined and thus mainly involved running in circles, stacked blocks on top of each other (not wholly uninteresting with the proper models and glue) and then knocked them down (obnoxious) or other such boring pursuits. Other children were loud. They grabbed at you, hands covered in drool or dirt, and sometimes they bit.

A light hiss passed through Mummy's teeth as the car they were waved through the wrought iron gates onto the Rathbridge estate. The Holmes's lands were certainly expansive enough, but the Rathbridge's were clearly larger and more strictly maintained, with artistically trimmed bushes bracketing the entrance-way. The car rolled down a winding path between perfect lines of staggered beech trees, their dark green leaves a sharp contrast to the light green shoots of Spring grass speckled with clover.

A break in the trees revealed a small lake framed by willow. Behind it stood an imposing stone building that reminded Sherlock of a castle. Castles, Sherlock had heard from the somewhat reliable authority of Mrs. Hawthorne, often had secret passages, treasure and sometimes even monsters. (Sherlock had no fear of monsters, not since Miss Amelia had given him a baseball bat, told him open the closet and take a good whack at anything that frightened him. This was good, practical advice that would serve him well through adulthood.) Sherlock rocked in his chair, peering around his mother through the window. Maybe this wouldn't be so boring after all.

The road passed around the lake, and beneath one of the willows Sherlock spotted a ginger haired boy reading. The book seemed almost as wide and thick as the green leather-bound dictionary in the center of the Holmes's home library. The boy was definitely older than Sherlock, eleven, maybe even twelve but certainly not thirteen (he lacked the hairy tenseness of the thirteen-year-olds Sherlock had observed), with fat legs. The boy didn't look up from the book as the car passed, which made Sherlock instantly like him, so Sherlock immediately averted his gaze, staring at his hands, afraid his attention would make the boy disappear.

"That must be Mycroft," Mummy said, "Rathgarde's sister's child. His mother had been sick for a while and passed in the Fall." Mummy took Sherlock's hands in hers. They were soft and smelled of lavender, her nails painted light pink that had the quiet shine of a pearl. "Don't you dare speak of this to Mycroft, should you have occasion to speak with him, do you understand Sherlock? Mycroft is still very sad. Can you imagine losing your Mummy so young?"

Sherlock couldn't imagine it, but he nodded anyway and filed the information under important things like where Mummy hid her stash of chocolate truffles (in the bathroom in soft pink makeup case under a cardboard box labeled Tampons) and how to avoid the squeaky board on the kitchen stairs so he could sneak out into the yard at night and study how the bats flew without being able to see.

"You won't be chatting much with him anyhow, I suppose," Mummy continued, now talking to herself. "He must be at least eleven now. Or twelve."

Right again. Sherlock grinned. tiny flame of warmth settled in his chest. Being right was better than candy, he'd decided this year. People patted him on the head and said he was either a bright boy (which he liked) or a good guesser (which he decidedly did not). Rarely did anyone listen to his explanations, except Miss Amelia, who did so with a periodic nods and the occasional "you're too smart for your own bloody good, kid."

Mummy continued, "You'll be with the younger boy, Thorpe, and another boy from the neighborhood."

Two of them. Sherlock's dismay rose. On the other hand, the two other children might entertain each other, making it easier for Sherlock to sneak away. But what if Mummy was right about Mycroft? What business did an twelve-year-old have talking with a boy seven years younger than him? (Sherlock was proud he could do the math without counting on his fingers) He would probably be just as dull and idiotic to Mycroft as his brother and his cronies to Sherlock, but it didn't matter. He would speak with the older boy, no matter what. Mycroft was interesting, and Sherlock wasn't one to let something interesting pass him by.

Life was too short, as Miss Amelia said. Like the dead mouse Sherlock had found in the wine cellar in February. He'd taken a battery from his watch and a knife from the kitchen cut it open to try and get it working again, like with his talking Teddy Ruxpin bear, but the insides had been squishy and stinky and there was no place to put the battery. Mrs. Hawthorne had found Sherlock sometime later, fingers deep in guts. She'd screamed once, a flush traveling along her pale skin, dragged him from the experiment, and then dumped him, clothing and all, into the tub. There she'd rinsed the sticky brown away, checking his hands and arms for cuts and scrubbing gently until the smell was erased.

"Mouse was broken," Sherlock explained.

"Oh dear." Mrs. Hawthorne patted his head with her broad palm. "You can't fix that kind of broken. It's time had just run out. Happens to us all." She blinked rapidly as she said it, deepening the wrinkles around her eyes.

Sherlock stood up, dripping, leaned over the lip of the tub where she was sitting and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"Poor poppet," Mrs. Hawthorne said, squeezing him in her arms. She always smelled vaguely of mothballs.

Sherlock's eyes burned. "When does the time run out?"

"Oh, not until you're older, much, much older, God be willing." Mrs. Hawthorne laughed, the hearty, hollow sound adults gave to reassure children but which usually left Sherlock feeling a little bit cheated. "Don't you worry about such things," she said, wiping a fist over her cheek. "Let's get you a cookie. We won't tell your Mummy about this, okay?"

Sherlock thought about the mouse even after the cookie was crumbs on his fingers. How long before his time ran out and he was broken too? He didn't know, but he resolved to find out. Sherlock had to find out everything important before the end happened.


	2. A Garden of Our Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still moving towards Mycroft, but this story is taking the long way around.

They passed by the main gate and its staircases in three layers like a cake. Mummy's lips tightened and she crossed her feet at her ankles, angling the toes of turquoise sandals away from the castle house. "Be nice to Thorpe and the other boy," she warned, "they will be good for you to have as friends."

Sherlock nodded, hoping this meant Thorpe at least would be more interesting or at least more intelligent than the others. Though Mummy did keep trying, his playdates never went well and Sherlock didn't have any friends. He wouldn't know what to do with one if he managed it. If he liked someone too much, would they disappear too, like the nannies? He doubted it would become a problem. His disinterest in other children was only matched by their distaste for him.

Mummy had Mr. Oakley drop them off at a side entrance. "Garden of the Heart," Mummy said, pointing at the sign. "How quaint."

"A Garden of Our Heart," Sherlock corrected.

"You're reading so well dear," Mummy said. "Soon you'll be on my detective novels."

Sherlock glowed under the praise. He had already tried to read the one on Mummy's nightstand called "The Murder at the Vicarage" three times when Mummy was out in the garden, careful not to move her bookmark, but there were too many words he didn't understand and Mummy didn't like it when he touched her things without permission so he couldn't take the book to the library to use the dictionary. Next time, he thought, he would write them down and find out what they meant and then Mummy would really be proud.

Mr. Oakley, the new driver, opened the car door for Mummy. He was a blunt faced young man of University age in a black suit jacket and slacks with white button down shirt and wine-red tie. The outfit fit like like a rugby uniform that was two sizes too large. His hazel eyes that rested on the yellow belt of Mummy's dress a little too long. Sherlock climbed over the chair (he wasn't supposed to but he hated waiting) and glared at the driver on the way out.

"Don't walk your shoes on the upholstery, dear," Mummy said as Sherlock swung his feet onto the ground. She glanced up at Mr. Oakley, "I suppose they were held up somehow. I'll just see the boy inside to his friends. It should be no more than ten minutes."

"Mrs. Holmes?" Mr. Oakley's gaze flitted towards the castle, and his lips moved as though he might say something, but then he simply pressed them together and stepped back. "I'll be waiting right here, Mrs. Holmes."

"Good job. Come along, Sherlock." Mummy took Sherlock's hand. A loose knitted shawl was draped over her shoulders: cream with gold threads, and goose-pimples ran over her bare arms. "It's just through this gate here and follow the path through the garden. I suppose we ought have waited, but they are late, and waiting is rather dull, isn't it?" She squeezed Sherlock's hand lightly and he smiled.

The gate was taller than even the crest of Sherlock's unruly black hair, topping just above Mummy's waist, a dull silver formed like woven vines that peaked in roses. Thorns ran along the stems. Sherlock reached out with his index finger and touched one; it was smooth and slightly damp.

"Stop that," Mummy said as she leaned over the gate. "You'll hurt yourself."

Sherlock sucked his finger before putting his hand in his pocket. It tasted like dirt and rust.

The latch had a was shaped like a backwards L, the base of it protruding towards Sherlock. Mummy grabbed it between her thumb and index finger and jiggled up and down until it opened. Sherlock made a note of his mother's movement. He could manage it, if he didn't have to push too hard.

The path was gravel bordered by smooth, flat rocks, and the garden around it was well organized and well maintained. There was a fair amount of pine and holly, their verdant green accented by budding trees bordered by clusters of tiny white and blue flowers. "Forget-Me-Nots are blooming away," Mummy said, her lips turning up with affection. As Sherlock and Mummy walked, she commented on other plants, "The hedge there is certainly grown large, hasn't it? Berries are quite horrid though, no place in a children's garden. If you eat a handful you will be throwing up for days." Sunlight glittered in the butterfly clip in her hair as she pointed to a dark green plant with succulent leaves. "Oh, if only I could remember the name...it is good for Poison Ivy though." The wind caused her dress to shift like waves around her ankles (Sherlock remembered this from last summer's family trip to the beach where he had been allowed, with Father, to go in all of the way to his knees).

Sherlock became aware of being watched. The smell gave it away first, a cinnamon musk that had the sharpness of something artificial, a bit like Mrs. Hawthorne had smelled the week before All Hallows Eve, when she'd been wearing Mr. Hawthorne's scarf. To Sherlock's left, something on the ground crunched, and Sherlock turned towards the sound. That way, the ground was flat, broken by a square of flowers. In the center grew a wide-trunked Oak. "Whose there?" he asked, pointing at the tree. Sticking out from the base, at an angle, stood a long black umbrella.

"Sherlock?" Mummy asked.

"There's someone over there."

"One of the gardeners, I'm sure."

"But it hasn't rained in days." Sherlock said.

"Rained?"

"Umbrella." Sherlock pointed.

Mummy's gaze followed Sherlock's finger to the umbrella. Her grip on Sherlock's hand tightened. "Someone must have left it," she said, and pulled Sherlock along the trail.

Ahead of them came the sound of laughter. Having Mummy's undivided attention was such a treat that Sherlock literally shook with rage when he heard it.

"There they are, thank the heavens but I was becoming concerned! Armand does get so annoyed when I'm late." Mummy exclaimed. She looked down at Sherlock and then ruffled her free hand through his hair. "Don't be scared."

Sherlock stamped his foot. "I'm not," he said, for the second time that morning. He hated repeating himself.

Mummy laughed, and Sherlock disliked the sound.

"They're prob'ly stupid," he said, pulling from her grip and shoving his hand in his pocket.

"Sherlock!"

"They're always stupid."

"I will not hear such language out of your mouth. You haven't even met these boys. I'm frankly disappointed."

Sherlock stared at the ground. His eyes burned. The apology was on the tip of his lips, but he wouldn't apologize in front of strangers.

Mummy was mad now, and so she wouldn't speak with him for days, except to say 'pass the salt' or 'take off those muddy shoes,' or 'We've taken on a new nanny, and Mummy has to spend the week working.' It wouldn't be so bad if Father came home. But at this point Sherlock deduced such a visit unlikely. Mummy was always skittish in advance of Father's arrival, insisting that the house be cleaned from top to bottom and yelling about the state of the curtains. When Father arrived, she dressed in dark colors and she always kept her wedding ring on.

"Now be nice," Mummy muttered, and then she stepped towards the nanny with a beaming smile that always reminded Sherlock of one of the dolls she collected: the one from China dressed in red and gold with demurely folded hands and head slightly bowed.

The nanny, a plump woman with ruddy skin and curly hair sneaking from where it was knotted at her neck, met them on the path. A blond boy with dirty hands, clung to the her right leg with his left hand. He gripped a model train in his right. Three or four years old, Sherlock thought, but definitely not five. The second boy was unmistakably Thorpe Rathbridge. He was stocky with short cropped dark brown hair and an upward tilt to his square chin that made it clear he was used to getting his way in most things.

The nanny smiled, her cheeks dimpling, "You must be Sherlock," she said, dropping to one knee and extending her hand. "My name is Mary."

Because she used her given name, Sherlock said, "Good Morning, Miss Mary."

"Oh, you are a darling," Miss Mary said with a laugh, which made Sherlock wonder if he'd been wrong somehow, but before he could ask she was shaking his hand. Her hand was soft and warm, and she gave him a light squeeze. "Just Mary is fine. I don't hold with too much formality in the playroom."

"Yes, Mi-" Sherlock stuttered. He wasn't certain what 'formality' meant, or if his mother held much with it (though he suspected she did), but he figured it had some relation to speaking properly to others. "Yes, Mary."

Mummy said, "It's a pleasure to meet you Mary. My son has been so excited about coming here today. I'm Victoria Holmes." Mummy extended her hand and Mary shook it.

"I'm Thorpe Rathbridge," said Thorpe, cutting Mary off with an ease that showed long practice. "I am six years old. Do you like the garden? When I am eighteen my father has promised that I will be bequeathed," he sounded the word out in a careful three syllables, "these lands." The implied 'so you'd better be nice to me' hung in the air.

"Thorpe, that isn't polite," Mary said.

"Sorry," Thorpe muttered. He wasn't embarrassed about it, and judging by his expression, he hadn't really apologized; he'd just said the word. Sherlock envied that. Thorpe's lips spread in a wide grin. He said, "I have a train set. It's got three levels and four different kinds of trains. David's got the Philadelphia." He waved behind him towards the blond boy. " Do you want to see the track?"

"Sherlock loves models!" Mummy exclaimed. "Won't that be fun, dear?"

Sherlock loved building models. Once they were done and working, he usually threw them into the toy bin or under the bed. Boring.

"Well, what do you say, Sherlock?" Mummy tilted her chin down towards Sherlock, her eyes half lidded, lips lightly pursed.

Sherlock rocked on his heels. "Thank you."

"Very good." Mummy released Sherlock's hand and said, "I must be going."

"Goodbye Mummy," Sherlock said in his best formal voice. She put a brief hand on his shoulder, and then she was bustling back down the path, her blue dress fluttering.

Thorpe ran up behind the younger boy and snatched the train from his hand. "David, let Sherlock hold the Philadelphia!" Thorpe exclaimed.

David's eyes became shiny and he bit his bottom lip.

"Look at this," Thorpe said to Sherlock, throwing his arm over Sherlock's shoulder. He was taller than Sherlock, and his arm was heavy. "See the blue line. It's a Philadelphia PCT."

"PTC," Sherlock said, reading the lettering on the train.

Thorpe pushed the train into Sherlock's palm. "You can hold it."

David's face looked heavy and he squeezed his eyes shut. Snot dribbled out of his nose. He wiped it with his sleeve.

"That's okay," Sherlock said, holding the train out. "David can have it." He wasn't much interested anyway.

"David always holds the Philadelphia," Thorpe said. He grabbed Sherlock's hand (Thorpe's hand was cold and slightly sticky) and pulled him towards the castle, "Let's go! If you're nice, I'll let you work the track switch!"


End file.
